The Second Rise of Cutler Beckett
by Master Of All Imagination
Summary: The destruction of the HMS Endeavour has left Cutler Beckett scarred, blind, and forsaken, washed up with the tide on the shores of a lonely island. Now, with the help of the isolated fisherwoman who finds him, he must gather the fragments of his life and rebuild everything he once had from the wreckage. Beckett/OC
1. Dead But Not Dead

[Part One]

_**The Resurrection**_

Wreckage has been washing up on shore for days now. The timber is useful for cooking and for fires, but it is the bodies that get in my way, stinking of fish left out too long in the sun and hailed by a rising cyclone of seabirds which peck at the drowned soldiers' remains.

The sight and smell of them roll over me in a putrid wave, assaulting both my nose and what feeble defenses I have erected to protect myself from the carnage. I close my eyes and tie a kerchief around my nose as I do what's necessary. Today there are three bodies piled in my skiff as I paddle around to the leeward side of the island, where the tides will take the ones I dump back out into the ocean and away from the shelter of the bay, where they will otherwise rot and decay.

Pity fills me as I survey each water-swollen corpse. If I were a God-given wench I would pray for them, but God's got no place in the life of a fisherwoman, and so I settle for gently closing the eyes of those who are not yet too rigid before hauling them over the side of the skiff.

The last body- that of a man between thirty and forty- is different. The act of raising him into a sitting position as I prepare to haul him overboard gives me the opportunity to examine him closer. For one thing, though his clothes are badly torn and charred, I can tell that they are much finer than those of the other poor sods I've seen; for another, he hasn't been shot, stabbed, or otherwise fatally wounded like most of the other young British men I've spent the past week getting rid of.

That's not to say that he's without injury, however. His whole face is covered in horrible burns, and seems hardly like a face at all- rather, like some half-eaten scrap brought back from the jungle by the dogs- and a foot-long piece of wood protrudes from his leg. Now that I'm looking closely, I also see that his body isn't all bloated and stiff like the other sailors' are.

A feeling of great unease steals across me, and I look around myself: the island is some two hundred feet behind me, and there's only the ocean on either side. Nevertheless, I remain on edge, faint suspicion rising within me.

_What if he's not dead?_

Curiosity piqued, I lean forward, studying him for any signs of life, and see his eyelids flutter.

I jump back, my hand going automatically to the paring-knife by my side, but I check myself.

_It's alright_, I think. _He's in no state to hurt you._

The dead-but-not-dead man coughs, splutters, and retches up a stomach's worth of seawater.

"There, there, easy now," I say, reaching out a hand to steady his shaking shoulders.

He speaks through white, salt-dried lips in a voice like Shakespeare's ghostly Banquo. "Am I… dead?"

"Do I look like an angel?"

"I… I don't know…" The man sounds incredibly confused.

I can't blame the poor chap. I'm assuming he's been adrift at sea for days; which I'm sure does nothing for one's brain.

"What's happened?" he begins to babble. "The _Endeavour_… Jones… Sparrow… _Sparrow_!-" Groaning, he tries to move, but his body is so weak he can barely stir, and he falls back against the skiff, chest heaving. I look around one last time and decide I'd rather deal with a half-drowned man on dry land rather than on open water, so I grab the oars of the skiff and start rowing, keeping one eye on the man and one on the shore.

Hell if I know who Jones is. Or this Sparrow fellow. What does he have against birds? "It's going to be alright," I say patiently. He keeps on muttering under his breath. Then, as silence descends and the absurdity of rowing a half-drowned man in a skiff hits me, I ask, "Say… what's your name?" to break the quiet.

He looks at me- or at least I think he tries to; I can't be sure as I can't see his eyes in the mass of charred flesh that makes up his face- like I'm an imbecile. Dunno what I've done to deserve that. After all, a minute ago I was about to throw him overboard, and now I've just effectively saved his life.

"I am the Director of the East India Trading Company," he asserts.

I scoff. "I said your _name_."

"Lord Cutler Beckett," he says.

"Ah." I nod. "That's better, seeing as I probably couldn't recognize you by your face even if I'd known you my whole life. I'm sorry to have to tell you you're a right mess."

As I mention his face, his hands creep up to feel it, and when he does, it's like the pain has suddenly dropped from the sky and right onto his shoulders. He falls back on the bench of the skiff and moans,

"My _leg_… my _leg_…"

I remember suddenly the piece of wood impaled in his calf. I figure shock and fatigue have taken the edge off his pain, not to mention dehydration and starvation, for I've no idea how long he's been adrift at sea nor how much blood he's lost. I row faster, for it's clear if I'm to keep him from returning to the land of the dead I'll need to exercise what little first aid skills I have as quickly as possible.

For the moment, I tear some fabric from the hem of my ratty dress and tie it above the wound to try and stop the gentle flow of blood that has begun to dribble from his leg. It's making a mess all over the nice clean boards of the hull. Lord Cutler Beckett makes no sound, and I realize he's passed out.

Despite the fact that I'm taller than my pitiful burden, it's no mean feat to beach the skiff and carry him ashore without jarring his leg, and I'm not sure I am very gentle, for he moans once or twice before I get him to the hut. It's a sorry thing, but I built it with my father almost a decade ago, and it's home. Two walls divide a kitchen in the middle, my bedroom to the left, and what used to be father's room on the right.

I haven't used father's room in ages, but I suppose the musty sheets and long unslept-in bed will have to do for the lord. I set him down harder than I mean to and he wakes up. I can see pain in the scrunched mess of his face, and in the way he hisses in sharp, heavy breaths. I feel the kind of pity I feel when one of the dogs has a sliver up its foot. I resolve to treat this here lord like I do the dogs: just pull it out fast and no one will remember the next morning.

_But this ain't a sliver, and he ain't a dog,_ a voice in my head whispers. I tell it to shush and leave the room to make preparations. Clean cloths, boiling water, a stick for him to bite, some rum for disinfecting, some cool water and honey for the burns on his face and hands. I pile it all on the edge of the bed and hesitate momentarily before using my knife to cut off what remains of his fancy trousers. The way I figure it, what's modesty when a man's life is at stake?

Lord Cutler Beckett turns his head this way and that, something akin to fear joining the pain I already see in him.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his words crisp and precise even through all of the pain.

"I've gotta get this piece of wood out of your leg," I say, fussing with my supplies. I'm worried about splinters breaking off and staying imbedded in his leg. The only surgical instrument I have is my hands, after all. "This is gonna hurt," I warn, pressing the stick into his hands, "but no more than it did goin' in, I'd imagine."

He seems confused at the stick. Honestly, do these proper English gentlemen known nothing about field medicine?

"You bite it," I instruct. "It's for the pain." Now I know there's fear in his face, but he just does as he's told and nods for me to continue. I grasp the wood at the top and ease it around, just to see how well it's stuck in there. His muscles contract with the pain and I tell him to relax. With a firm grip and a silent _one… two… __**three**_, I give a yank.

He flinches badly, then lies still. Once the foot-long plank is out, I breathe a sigh of relief. The hard part is over.

Now time for the cloths, water, and rum. With the plank no longer plugging up the wound it begins to bleed freely. My hands and dress are slick with blood, and I think ruefully that it'll be the flames for the garment when I'm through.

I clean the hole as best as I can and bind it up tight to try and stop the bleeding. I'm sure it's going to fester, though, as he's been at sea for who knows how long, and I am certain even a skilled nurse would be hard pressed to stave off infection, the salt notwithstanding.

Sighing, I turn my attention to his face. Whatever happened on the ship that carried all those men has made a ravage of it. His skin is black, blistered, and burned; his eyebrows, lashes, and most of his hair are completely charred off. Strangely, the lower part of his face is intact, and I study his lips while I clean the rest with water and apply honey to the burns. His lips are soft- well-formed, but with a cruel tilt to them. I confirm his eyes are indeed sightless, destroyed by whatever burned him. It is a strange sort of mercy that the fates have not spared his eyes. When- _if_- his burns heal, he will not be a pretty sight.

I know he is dehydrated, so as soon as I have finished wrapping his face and hands in clean linen swaths I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and fetch some water from the spring out back. He gulps it eagerly, and I have to restrain him, for I know that too much water at once in a dehydrated body will make a man sick. I hold the cup and press it gently to his lips while I slip a hand behind his neck to support him. Bandaged hands wrap around mine, holding the cup steady.

He thanks me as I retreat to the kitchen for more water. I glance through the doorway at him, furtively, before realizing he can't see me looking in any case. I wonder who he is. Three words are all I know: Lord Cutler Beckett. They are a name and a title. What good does that do me? Asking him is out of the question, for the poor man is out like a light when I get back. I cover him with the blankets and leave the hut. I pace in the sand outside of the door, and then I go back inside again.

I'm at a loss with what to do with myself. _There is an injured man in your father's bed,_ I think, and laugh a little bit. _What in seven hells do I do now?_

With the sun setting, I fall back on routine and call for Tuck and Bull. The dogs come charging out of the jungle at my whistle, each carrying something tasty in its mouth for supper. After life so long on this island, certain things are rote to me, regardless of any unforeseen surprises. I set the remainder of the water in the kettle over the firepit out front to boil so I can cook the rabbit and possum they've brought. Having something to do with my hands is already forcing me to focus my mind, allowing me to concentrate on what to do about this interloper to my little world.

An idea hits me. I have been scrounging still-usable clothing off of the bodies I dump, as I have only three dresses of my own. Dresses are expensive, and I only make the trip to the mainland to resupply once every quarter year. My bounty of blue jackets, trousers, and boots are tucked in a small lean-to with the wood against the back of the hut. Leaving the kettle, I scamper to the lean-to, pick the nicest of the clothes, and carry them inside with me, laying them at the foot of the bed. Lord Cutler Beckett is still dead to the world. When he is better he will now at least have clean clothes to replace the rags he currently wears.

I wander back to my kettle, now boiling, and quickly skin the animals so they can be added. The stew's role is doubly important now that it must stretch to feed two. I swallow hard. Some days I barely have enough food for myself- how am I to feed a full-grown man as well? Thinking of the coming hardship, I momentarily regret not chucking Lord Cutler Beckett off the edge of the skiff with the others.

With a shake of my head, I put a wooden spoon into the kettle and give it a hard stir. _But to be a killer in the name of convenience? _I admonish myself._ You have done the right thing. And who knows… this man may turn out to be less of a burden than you anticipate. _Longing thoughts of having someone to help chop wood enter my mind. It would be the least he could do to repay me for my trouble. Last winter had been particularly brutal, when the heavy rains drove a hole through the roof and I nearly killed myself climbing the slippery thatch in an attempt to repair it. Yes, an extra hand would be quite useful.

Eyeing the stew critically, I take a tentative sniff. It looks more or less cooked, and I decide dinner is ready. Raising the ladle, I am about to eat it straight from the pot, but I stop myself, remembering my unexpected guest, and instead dish some onto a wooden plate and carry it into my father's old room. The man is awakened by the smell of the food. I imagine it is the only thing which could have roused him, at this point, from slumber. He stirs weakly, and tries to sit up, though he falls back against the bed almost immediately. I come to his side and feed him myself. It is like taking care of a baby, or perhaps a pup, for I have never seen a baby but at the breast of a whore on the mainland, yet I raised two pups with the help of my father.

After a couple of slow, messy spoonfuls, he attempts to take the ladle from me.

"I believe I can manage," he mutters, full of offended pride. When he cannot even find the bowl to dip the ladle into, and when his frustration has grown painful to watch, I take the spoon back from him. I can sense his resentment, but damned be his pride if he wishes to survive.

When the food is almost gone he returns again to his questions.

"I do not believe we have been properly acquainted," he says between bites.

"Winnifred Dayne, at your service." I offer him another spoonful. "How d'you feel?"

He prefaces his statement with a great sigh. "My leg hurts like the devil. My face feels as if on fire. And I have not eaten in I know not how long, so whatever you are feeding me at the moment tastes like heaven. What is it?"

"Rabbit-possum stew," I inform him, and wait for his reaction. I'm ninety-nine percent certain it's not regular fare on British ships.

"I haven't been served rabbit since I left Port Royal."

"Glad you like it," I say, smiling faintly and thinking _Where's Port Royal?_

The soup is now gone. There's no reason for me to linger by his bed, so I get up awkwardly to leave.

Lord Cutler Beckett hastily reaches out, grabbing at any part of me he can get a hold of in an effort to make me stay. Conceding, I sink to my knees again by the side of his bed. He groans slightly. Idiot probably jostled his leg when he reached for me.

"Wait. A moment, please. I wish to know how I came to be here."

"You really should rest, there'll be plenty o' time for questions later-"

"_How did I come to be here?_"

My eyes narrow. "Don'tcha remember? It was naught but a few hours ago."

"My memory is dark in places."

_Fine. I'll humor him. _"You washed up on shore this afternoon. I put you in my skiff to take you out of the bay. I thought you were dead, like the rest, but you weren't."

"The rest?"

"Aye. Bodies 'ave been washin' up on shore all week, along with loads of debris."

"Miss Dayne-"

I cut him off. "Winnifred, if you please. I'll not stand on ceremony when it's only us two to consider."

"Winnifred, then. You are alone on this island?"

"I did say 'the two of us,' didn't I?"

His mouth twists. A confusing expression to read without the rest of his face for a clue. I soften my next words, thinking him annoyed, and attempt to take the impatience out of them. "Well, Lord Cutler Beckett…"

He smiles. It is a nice smile. I don't find his mouth cruel anymore.

"It will be simpler if you just call me Beckett." I smile, too, even though I know he can't see.

"If you must know, I row to the mainland every quarter year. That's the only time I have contact with other people, if you don't count the fish. And the bodies."

"I don't." He continues on before I can decide if he means it sarcastically or seriously. "Although, I must say I find it highly improbably that anyone could subsist in this God-forsaken ocean alone. Take no offence, Miss Da… ah… Winnifred, but _especially _if that person is a woman."

"Wasn't always alone," I say. "Used to be me and my father, 'makin' a livin' away from the cruelty of the world.' At least that's what he always said." I pause. I agreed with my father most times when he was alive, but at least for today, I'm not so sure what I think of the world. "He's dead now," I finish bluntly.

"I'm sorry," Beckett says after a moment. He seems genuine. "It sounds like your father was a wise man."

"How d'you figure?"

"His philosophy is sound. The world is indeed a cruel place. Even when it seems like everything is falling into position, fate throws in a twist. Or a storm. What-have-you." He sighs. "I'm blind, aren't I?" he asks suddenly.

I wonder what cruel turn, besides the obvious injuries, fate has dealt him in order to impart on him such a bleak outlook. It would be rude to inquire so I just answer,

"I'm afraid so." There is a silence pregnant with pity. As I pick up the bowl and spoon, I am painfully aware that this man will not be able to eat by himself for a long time. I wonder once more what kind of a burden I have shouldered before I leave the room, call the dogs in, clean up the dinner, and go to bed.

I have no appetite for my share of the stew.

**A/N: Some of you may recognize this story. It is, in fact, a rewrite of my old story Flotsam and Jetsam. Now, before you click the "back" button, let me put up a little disclaimer: I wrote F&J two years ago, and since then the quality of my writing has vastly improved. Actually, F&J was probably more of a self-insert than anything else when I originally wrote it.**

**The Second Rise of Cutler Beckett, however, is going to be something entirely different. In fact, the only things I am retaining from F&J are Beckett, my OC, and the vague plot of the first few chapters. After that, the story diverges completely into something much more serious and in-depth than a story merely told to carry out personal imaginings. I do hope you'll give it a chance. :)**

**Oh, and a super-special thank-you to my beta reader PhantomPenguin!**


	2. Fever

Morning dawns. I believe I shall never tire of the sight of auburn sky contrasting against blue ocean. Normally I go out with the tide on the skiff to catch breakfast first thing after I wake, but there's still stew from last night and I am reluctant to leave Beckett alone. As I think of this, I remember to check his progress. A night of healing can work wonders on a person.

_Or horrors_, I think morbidly, imagining a dead body waiting for me in father's bed. Suppressing a shiver, I rise from my cot, absentmindedly stuffing some straw back into an old hole as I do.

It is clear that something is wrong as soon as I step into Beckett's room. His sheets are more tangled than one of my nets after a storm, and he trembles uncontrollably. Blood has soaked through the bandages of yesterday. I go quickly to put my hand on his forehead, realizing too late the futility, and check his pulse instead- it races. It is as I feared: the wound has festered.

Into the kitchen and back again I go, returning with cloths and cool water, which I press to his neck and the insides of his wrists when I can still them. His shivers intensify when I strip back the sheets, but I must see to the dressing of his leg. When I unwind it I find it is red, swollen, and indeed infected, oozing fluids at the slightest prod. I run back to the kitchen for the rum and a bit of boiled sea water and, after a moment's hesitation, my sharpest knife. Best that I drain the wound, and remove the ill liquids that abide there, as father taught me. _If only I had leeches to bleed him properly!_

Father knew much about physical ailments, yet he still died from a fever himself. He lay in bed for weeks and had me lay cold compresses on his forehead while drinking a steady flow of water. He told me it would flush out the sickness.

He died alone in the night.

It did not work then, and I do not believe it will work now. But it cannot hurt to fill a pitcher with drinking water and bring it along as well.

I know I am to spend all day at his side if I want to save him. And I _do_ want to save him: I haven't gone through all this trouble just to see him die on me.

Yet that explanation is just a bit too far from truthfulness to sit right. As I clean his wound again and my concept of time begins to slip away in the haze of concentration, I wonder why it matters so much. I work even harder for this stranger than I did for father, a man I knew and loved, until the only thought I have in my mind is for him to _please, please live_. _This time, you must live_.

Perhaps it is just that I cannot bear to see another man die of the same ailment in the same bed.

I watch Beckett in the throes of fever for three hours. Then, I become hungry, and eat the rest of the stew. When I am able, I push a little water past his lips.

I wait.

I read.

I pace.

I fret.

I think.

Day turns to night turns to day as the cycle repeats. His fever is what I wake to and what I fall asleep to. Though I do very little besides force him to drink, cool his skin, and change his bandage, my task exhausts me. It becomes routine. Sometimes I read aloud. I work my way through Macbeth on the second day, and on the third, I start on Robinson Crusoe- one of father's old favorites.

On the fifth day, when I'm jumpy if I am taken more than ten feet from his bedside, and I have not cooked a full meal since that last rabbit-possum stew, his fever breaks.

It is late, or perhaps it is early, and I have been dozing. Beckett stirs, his movement waking me. Hoping with all I have that this hellish bedside vigil is finally over, I check his pulse and feel his neck with the back of my hand. Both seem normal.

"Can you hear me, Beckett?" He has begun to sit up.

"Thankfully, deafness does not yet feature on my list of disabilities."

I put my book aside. "Your voice sounds awful. You must be thirsty."

"Terribly."

I pour some water, and press it into his hand. He finds his lips with the rim of the cup and then drinks. When he has gulped the lot I take the empty cup back from him. A strange pride that he has managed this small thing on his own fills me- and if I'm not mistaken, the miniscule pull of the corner of his mouth means he's pleased as well.

"How long have I-"

"Five days," I interrupt, eager to dispel the silence of a sickbed. "A right dreadful fever. I've seen the likes of it kill before. But you pulled through. And I daresay the worst is over."

"Thanks be to you, I would imagine," Beckett says, absorbing what I've told him.

"Mostly," I shrug. "A body has to be strong, though. It must have a will to live."

"Or an aversion to dying."

I laugh. "Aye, or that! How many times have you cheated death now?"

"Thrice," he answers., "if not drowning is accounted for." I grow silent. I hadn't been expecting a serious answer.

"Beckett… if ye don't mind me asking…"

He leans his head back against the wall, sitting for the first time since brought ashore. As his bandages barely allow, he slowly slides the rough fabric of the sheets between his fingers. I think he knows what I'm about to say. It occurs to me that perhaps the fate of his ship and all those British men is a touchy subject, and I wince at my own ignorance.

Lo and behold, I'm wrong.

"Pirates," he answers simply, dropping the sheets. "And what's worse, betrayal by said pirates after a grave miscalculation on my own part. A long and complicated tale that does not bear repeating at this time."

"As you'll have it," I say. The way I figure it is it's best not to pry. I'd be mum too if our situations were reversed. "I'm glad you're well again, at any rate."

"I do not doubt it. I'm sure you're eager to resume your many duties," he murmurs. Already in the process of half-rising from my chair, I plop back down again indignantly.

"What're you implying?"

"I only mean to acknowledge my obvious burden on you; my care must be no less a chore than your other daily tasks-"

"Well you're not chores!"

"Then what am I?"

"You're…I mean…" _Where was I going with that thought?_ "Look. I could have dropped you into the ocean and been done with you. So let's get one thing straight here. If you're on my island and in my house," I say, "it's cus I'm letting you be."

"Is that a threat?" Soft as his words are, I have no trouble hearing them in the small room, the only other sounds around me being the sea's melody and the palm tree fronds rustling outside.

"Of course not," I answer quickly.

"You will forgive me if I am hardly reassured."

"Eh?"

"I am completely at your mercy," he explains. "Many others in your position would not be so charitable as to offer me food, let alone anything further."

I scoff. "I ain't gonna just let you _die_." My brief reservations of yesterday stay conveniently unmentioned.

Silence from the direction of the bed. Beckett's lips press together. It's infuriatingly hard to read.

"Your commitment to my wellfare being, admittedly, unwarranted, it is appreciated all the more for it," Beckett says after a while.

"Is that a 'thank you?'" _What a roundabout way to say something so simple_, I think, wondering if he can hear the surprise in my voice.

"Yes. Yes, you could classify it as such. Winnifred Dayne, it seems I owe you a debt. And you have my assurance, both as a gentleman and as a director of the East India Trading Company, that I shall repay this debt."

I drop into a curtsey, automatically- old habits die hard, even after all these years- but straighten almost immediately. I'm gonna have to remember that such gestures are naught but utter futility around a blind man.

"I'll sure keep that in mind." A wry smile twists my mouth. _Lofty promises are all well and good, but I don't see him in a position to fulfill them any time soon._ Tactfully, I keep my thoughts to my own head.

"I'm glad we've reached an understanding."

If an understanding's been reached, no one's informed me of it, so I choose to extricate myself from this situation before it can get any father out of my grasp.

"If we're speaking of chores, Beckett, I must get to them. Fish don't fish themselves, and the tide waits for no one."

"By all means."

"If there's nothing else you need-?"

A pause. "Leave the water by the bed?"

"Alright."

I leave the water on the bedside table and then I leave the room, casting one last glance at Beckett before I cross the threshold. He is ever-so-cautiously finding the edge of the table with his hand, continuing to move to the glass, and raising it to drink. Light catches my eye from the open front door, and when I turn around, the dawn is calling.

I have been sorely remiss in my fishing since Beckett fell ill, and I'm gonna feel the pain of it when I go to port- which I must soon do. Three full moons have waxed and waned since I last made the journey, and with another mouth to feed I'm doubly in need of supplies. Normally I stay out an extra hour or two each morning with my nets the week before I head to the mainland, as fresh catches will fetch more than the salted fish I've been curing for the past three months. Either I delay my trip this quarter-year or I go with less fish to sell.

Decisions, decisions.

_At least I don't need cloth this time around_, I remind myself as I untie the bowline of my skiff from a log drove deep into the sand. With no cloth to buy, I'll save a pretty penny. After all, I have no problem with the drowned sailors' clothes. It's not as if they have any use for them any more.

One boot digs into the wet sand as I push the skiff away from the beach with my other. Quick from long practice, I snatch up the bowline and jump inside. Just as soon as I've settled I grab the oars and start maneuvering out of the bay, my back to the open ocean. I can see that the ocean has graced the beach with two more bodies and much driftwood while I've been minding Beckett. Those'll need tending to later. For the moment, the fish are all I'm worried about.

By the time I clear the bay the sun is still not yet visible over the tops of the palms that cover the summit of my island's small mountain. I've caught the tide perfectly.

My hut's just a brown speck when I stop rowing, my shoulders aching slightly from five days of inactivity. I've missed this- though I'm not sure what _this _is. Was it the solitude? The company of another person is still so new to me I don't think I've had the chance to miss being alone yet.

Perhaps it is the feeling of the waves beneath the skiff, comforting and familiar. I smile, busying my hands with the nets. _No,_ I decide, _it's not just that_. _I've missed everything_.

I've missed the sun making the waves sparkle like the jewelry I half remember my mother wearing, and the movement of the skiff and the oars, and the knowledge that it's only me at the sea's mercy and the simple act of drawing my sustenance from its depths with my own two hands.

My father was right: this is how people are meant to live. Not cooped up in fancy estates with servants waiting on your every hand and foot like you're some invalid. Not stuffed into silks and brocades that take days upon days to make yet will only see the light of day on special occasions. What a waste. My father used to tell me to "take what you use and use what you take." He never fished for more than we needed. He never bought more supplies than would do us for a quarter-year. He was smart, my father. He was other things, too- things that I don't like to remember. But mostly he was smart.

The nets begin to jerk weirdly, drawing me from my thoughts. Curious, I peer over the edge. It's not the movement of fish causing the motion; that much I can tell.

Some debris are floating by the starboard side of my skiff and getting caught in the net hung there. I lean over the side, rail digging into my stomach, and reach for them: my arms are, alas, too short. I grab an oar and try again. This time they come free and float towards me, close enough to grab.

Seaweed has made a strange little raft of several pieces of driftwood. I'm about to lift it into the skiff, but then it _moves_.

A white crab scuttles out of the water and onto the top of the raft.

"What are you doin' here, little one?" I wonder aloud as I carefully lift the driftwood pile. The crab clicks its pincers at me.

I've probably eaten hundreds of crabs- tasty things, they are- but I've not ever seen nor ate a white one before. I grab my paring knife and prepare to kill it. I can't have dinner scampering all over my skiff and making a nuisance of itself.

I flip it over onto my knee and hold it steady with one hand. Its little legs wave in the air. Just like I've done a thousand times before, I position my knife over it's soft bits… but then… I stop.

It'd be a shame to kill this crab. It floated from devil-knows-where on that sad little driftwood raft and right into my bay. So I let it go, and watch as it flips itself upright and proceeds to cautiously clamber about my skiff, just like I knew it would. I'll bring it to shore with me and let it go.

With a certain amount of ruefulness, I wonder just how many more free-drifting creatures I'll rescue from death before I decide enough's enough.

_When I take those soldiers around the island later today_, I tell myself, _I don't care if they're kicking and screaming: they're going overboard._

Me, myself and I all know I'll never do it, but we won't tell Winnifred that.

I check the nets once more. They're about full, and I heave them into the skiff to observe my catch. Decent, but the sun's still low and I can afford to cast one more time. I dump the wriggling fish behind me into the chest I have placed at the stern, and it's only as I chase a particularly spry specimen across the hull boards that I notice something glinting.

The fish immediately flees my mind as I dive for the trinket, trapped in seaweed on the driftwood the crab floated in on. My frantic hands wipe off green slime until I can clearly see what I have: a silver-topped walking stick.

Slowly now I extricate it from the driftwood. I whistle. The knob of the stick is quite a piece of workmanship. Father didn't allow me to keep jewelry, but he had a silver pocket watch, long ago pawned, and I know sterling when I see it. I'm already calculating how much it will fetch at port.

Once I've got the nets cast and out of the way for the second time I pick up the walking stick again. The errant fish flaps against my ankle. I ignore it. For the next ten minutes, I devote my attention to a minute examination and cleaning of my new find before a realization hits me and I groan the loudest groan I've possibly ever groaned.

I can't sell the stick. I have to give it to Beckett. When his leg is somewhat healed, he'll need _something_ to help him get around, and despite my surplus of driftwood, I'm hopeless at carving. This stick is the closest thing to that something I will ever find. With a sigh, I set it aside. I'm not sure how Beckett will get more use out of it than the use I would get from the gold it would fetch, but let it not be said that I am not a considerate host. I don't need the gold that badly. Yet.

I can always take it back from him and sell it later.

In a brooding mood, I watch the sun rise over the island and eventually draw in my nets for the day. Once all the fish are stowed (including the now-dead specimen that escaped me before), I begin the trip back to shore, my back now to the open ocean.

I have absolutely no idea where the white crab has gone.

Bringing the walking stick to Beckett is my first task after tying off the skiff. I try it out on the sand, alternately swinging it in my right hand and planting it in the ground. It's a bit too tall to take my weight properly, and it just sinks into the sand. Bloody impractical thing. I've never understood men's fascination with them.

"Beckett! Got something for you!" I exclaim from the front door. Without waiting for a reply I turn the corner and cross the threshold to Beckett's room: he still sits upright, his head tilted down towards his right shoulder, as if I've caught him deep in thought.

"Do tell," he says, all long vowels and proper enunciation.

"Something to help you walk when you're feeling better." I hand the stick to him, knob first. He doesn't move. "It's right in front of you," I add, and this time he reaches out and finds the handle. "I suppose you also might use it to find your way around," I continue as he runs his hands along the walking stick's length. "You know. To tap around, so you can see where doorways are and things." No reaction is forthcoming. "Beckett? Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"Where did you get this?" he asks softly.

"I found it floating in the sea when I went out to fish this morning." Beckett is still strangely and utterly fascinated by the stick. "Why do you ask?"

Deftly for a blind man, he snaps the stick around in a swift movement and holds it aloft just below the knob, as if for examination. "This is mine," he announces to me.

"Yes, I know. I've just given it to you."

A soft chuckle. "Allow me to rephrase. This was a gift, given to me upon the occasion when I received my lordship. A possession I had thought lost along with the _Endeavour_."

"The _Endeavour _was your ship, right?"

"Yes," he says, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone, as if I should have known that already.

I fold my arms. Drawing on only a half-addled mention of the ship's name when I first rescued him, I thought my assumption to be pretty intelligent. Apparently I'm not up to his standards. My only response is to roll my eyes and say, "The sea is fickle. It gives and it takes."

I turn on my heel and leave. Beckett is too absorbed in the walking stick to notice, yet I would swear on my last gold guinea that as I go I hear mutter, "This will be of immense help."

I think then that he only means it in a physical sense: as an aide in walking. It is only much later that I come to understand in just how many different ways he knew it would help him, walking being the least of them.


	3. Port

**A/N: This chapter is long. This chapter is also boring. I'm sorry for that; and I'm also sorry for the delay in posting: school has just started up again and it has been eating up my spare time. Accordingly, I'm posting this un-beta'd, (because I figure I've waited long enough to post something) and I will reupload later with the beta'd version. This chapter was originally **_**two**_** chapters, but I've combined them to speed up the narrative a bit. (10,000 words in and the main plot hasn't even started up yet. Something had to give.) Rest assured, however, that the next chapter has all the action that didn't make it into this one (and more of Beckett as well) :) **

_ Thump. Thump._

I cover my ears, but the noise comes through, to no avail.

_ Thump. Thump. _

_ Why in seven hells did I ever give him that wretched walking stick? _I think angrily. _If I'd known all he'd do with it was bang it against the floor at all hours of the day…_

_ Thump. Thump_. Wincing, I half-stand from the kitchen table, leaving my mending in mid-stitch. Suddenly the noise cuts off. Slowly I lower myself back down onto my stool, hopeful for the moment that Beckett has found some other means of entertaining himself.

Ten minutes pass without the dreadful noise, and then-

_ Thump. Thump_.

That's the last straw. I stand, shove my half-hemmed soldier's pants onto the table, and stomp into Beckett's room.

"For the love of Calypso! Put that wretched stick _down_!"

One last _thump_, and the cane is still. Beckett is sitting up against several rolled rags and my only spare pillow, his right arm dangling over the side of the bed, the silver-topped stick held loosely in his hand.

"Am I bothering you?" he asks innocently. A flick of his wrist sends the walking stick into the air, and he catches it, deftly. I blink, marveling at the act. I don't believe I could have done it with myself with both eyes open.

"Aye." I move from the doorway and into the room proper. "A good bit."

As I walk, Beckett turns his head ever so slightly, following my movement. I stop for a moment and then continue my steps as silently as I can. His gaze stays focused on the place where I stopped.

"It's a good trick, that," I say casually from right next to his arm. He turns so fast I swear I hear his neck crick, and once he recovers from his surprise he smiles ruefully.

"A small skill I've been developing. Obviously I need more practice."

"So…." I take a few steps away, quickly, making no move to disguise their sound, and then cross around the bed and to his other side. His head changes direction smoothly, the illusion almost complete: if not for the bandages encompassing the upper half of his head, I can almost believe that he can see me. "You can tell where I am by listening?"

"Something like that. My hearing has not improved; I have simply… improved at hearing." There was that smile of his again: as if sharing some inside joke with himself.

"You'll lay off the thumping, then?"

The smile slips away. "Shall I sit quietly and contemplate the meaning of my existence instead?"

"No call for getting defensive. Just find some other way to entertain yourself," I say.

"Please, suggest an alternative. I am all ears."

I run through a few suggestions in my mind, but I quickly realize that they are all impossible for a blind man. But that's not my problem, is it? Does he expect me to be entertainer as well as nurse and caretaker? I have mending that needs doing. I have no time for this, and the silence has stretched too long.

"Contemplate life, twiddle your thumbs, or do whatever- as long as it's not distracting me from my mending."

Pressing his lips together, Beckett lets the walking stick fall to the floor with a clatter and returns his unseeing gaze to the opposite wall. It smacks of dismissal.

I stalk from the room, unable to stand being in his presence any longer. I briefly return to my mending, but I have no patience for it. Shoving it aside, I walk out the door and onto the sands of the beach.

Waves wash gently up on the shore some thirty feet to my right. My bare feet sink into the hot sand, my boots abandoned by the door. I squint up into the midday sun as a sudden desire to stretch my legs runs through me. With no further ado I break into a headlong sprint, the tension running off of me like seawater off an oar. I stop when I run out of beach.

The hut, my mending, and Beckett are far in the distance. I double over, chest heaving. Catching my breath for the walk back requires a moment. I take my time, gauging the distance with my eyes. A kilometer? Maybe less? My feet burn on the hot sand, something I did not notice when I ran, so into the surf I go. The water cools the soles of my feet instantly and brings a smile to my face. One deep breath and I am calm again, Beckett's petulance and my annoyance finally fading.

I amble back. The mending can keep after all, I decide. Nothing else presses: the fish await port all prepared in their three barrels, and if the weather holds I shall possibly make the day-long trip to resupply tomorrow.

With a sigh, I finally enter the shade of the hut. I peek around Beckett's doorway (there is no door, father never fitted one) and find Beckett just as I left him, staring at the wall and apparently deep in thought. Or perhaps sleeping. No- not sleeping, because his head swivels to face me, something like a question in its tilt. He looks quite serene with his hands folded in front of him. Perhaps I was too harsh, earlier. Perhaps I'd let myself become annoyed too easily. I'd personally go mad if I were forced to sit in a bed day in and day out and do nothing while I waited to recover from sundry injuries.

"Do you like Shakespeare?" I ask on the spur of the moment.

He appears to consider the question. "I prefer prose to poetry."

"Robinson Crusoe it is." I snatch the book from my room and then settle down in the chair by his bed, preparing to read aloud to him. A decision which has entirely nothing to do with guilt, I assure myself.

"_The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe_," I begin. It's of no use to leave off where I was when I read it to him during his fever; he will not remember the plot. "'_Chapter One: Start in Life. I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York…._'"

Beckett is an attentive listener. He cocks his head down and towards my voice and makes nary a sound. I read until my voice is hoarse and then I stop, setting aside the book and preparing to rise. Mending can be put on hold. Dinner, however, cannot.

"Better go fetch supper," I announce. Crossing my fingers, I hope for wild bird from one of the dogs.

I am out of the room when Beckett's voice comes from behind me and unexpectedly says, "You read most competently, Winnifred."

He hasn't thanked me, so I suspect that this mellow compliment is something of that nature.

"You're welcome," I say, and get on with the dinner.

We somehow make it through the night with no more altercations, which is fine by me. Beckett is even more thoughtful than usual as I help him through the meal, and says nothing. His stick rests against the wall near the bed.

Such a silly little thing to have argued over.

"I think I'll row to the mainland in the morning," I tell him that night. "My fish aren't getting any fresher. And I need the supplies."

"When should I expect your return?"

"If I leave early and port ain't too busy… erm…" I do some quick calculation on my fingers, muttering the hours I'll need under my breath. "An hour or two past sundown. I'll leave you some food here so's you don't get hungry, and the dogs'll take care of themselves. Will you be alright on your own?"

"I believe if the dogs can take care of themselves in your absence, so can I."

"Good. Because even if you'd have said no there would be no alternative. I can't very well take you with me."

"Yet."

"…yet," I acknowledge. _In three months' time, when I next go to port, his leg will likely be healed and I will take him with me. Leave him with the brothers at the abbey, perhaps, and be alone again._ I think about that for a moment. "Alone" suddenly seems a daunting prospect, and recalls feelings I normally associate with bad weather and sickness. And though he is of no use to me yet, it would also mean a lack of a future helpmate to aide me around the island. _That_ is certainly a possibility I don't want to lose so soon.

"Winnifred?"

I snap out of my thoughts. "Huh?"

"I said 'Any bit of news you could gather of the world and the East India Trading Company's current state of affairs would be invaluable to me.'"

Ah, yes. _Lord_ Cutler Beckett wishes news of his empire. It's easy to forget about the title he claims as his. He may have been a lord once, but as I see him now, he's nothing. Just a man. Just a blind, injured man.

"I'll keep an ear open-"

"_Both_ ears, if you don't mind."

"Alright, _both _ears."

"Until the morning?"

"Aye." Obviously he's asked for what he needed and wants to be rid of me. I can't deny the man his privacy, so I stand. "Wait- no, actually. I'll leave before dawn, so you'll still be abed."

"In that case, a safe voyage to you."

_ I was just hoping the same thing._

* * *

No crow of a rooster, no liveried servant to wake me, just the fuzzy pre-dawn darkness and the slight non-smell of the ocean.

Everything is as silent as the locker, which puts me at ease. I've never been one for noise. Then I hear a shuffle of sheets rearranging, and a sigh: Beckett turning in his sleep. Which thankfully reminds me to leave him some food for the day. My pantry's paltry larder offers up some slightly stale bread and dried papaya from the jungle. That, along with a pitcher of water, will have to suffice for Beckett's rations.

An ugly snort escapes me when the act of setting the food down on his bedside table reminds me of times when wildlife is scarce and I have to lay out food bowls for Tuck and Bull. But Beckett turns in his sleep and mutters something, so I clamp a hand down over my mouth and chastise myself for my thoughts.

_ He ain't a dog_, I remind myself. _For one thing, he's better company._

I slip out the door and don my boots, casting my gaze to the stars. The star I use for navigation is normally just above the tip of the mountain this time of year. It takes a fair few seconds to find it among all its shiny brethren in that region of the sky, but eventually I espy it. I like to navigate without a compass, when I can. It frees my hands for the oars.

The barrels of fish have to be rolled from the lean-to over the sand and then lifted into the skiff. Then I have to tie them down- tightly, mind you. More than one journey I've spent with broken ropes and a barrel threatening to roll right over the side at the littlest wave.

The skiff is thrice as heavy loaded down with the fish, but it will be even heavier upon the return toting sacks of flour, salt, miscellaneous fishing supplies and other goods. I even leave my nets on shore to save weight. All I have with me is a small coin purse that doesn't even jangle.

With a heave I shove the prow as hard as I can with my foot. A few grains of sand trickle into the waterline, but otherwise, nothing moves. I kick it again and this time it budges, enough for me to push it with all my might into the water, which comes high on the hull.

Already I feel that this is going to be a difficult day. I mutter a few words of a sea shanty to help cheer me up- "Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum… wink and a devil have done for the guest…" _Wait a minute. Those aren't the right words._ I shrug. I can feel the fatigue in my shoulders waiting for later in the day to pounce on me as I row slowly out of the bay, one eye on my navigation star and another on the barrels in front of me.

I don't know how many miles of open ocean separate my island and the mainland, but I do know that it takes four-and-a-half hours to row there. By that time I will be exhausted and have only the strength to drag myself to the abbey, find Brother James, and beg a meal from the only soul in the whole of that port town who I sometimes think to call "friend." Though, come to think of it, he was father's friend before he was mine. I suppose I have inherited him.

Eventually the sun rises and replaces my navigation star, and the hours pass as blurs of effort and waves. In books, people like to claim that things like this pass rapidly. I'd like to rip them out of the page and slap them upside the head, because they're dead wrong. I feel every minute that passes as keenly as every oar stroke I make.

When a small black speck appears on the horizon I sigh with relief and carry on rowing until the docks are in view, and then I keep on rowing, because I have no money with which to pay the toll for mooring. It seems as if no one else does either, for there are very few ships moored there: in fact, I have never seen it more empty. So instead I head for the mouth of the river that empties into the harbor, and row the last leg of my journey up its length, around the dirty port town, and straight to the abbey's mill.

A small child bringing two buckets to the mill sends up a cry when he sees my skiff and goes running off into the underbrush towards the abbey, dropping the buckets and sloshing his water everywhere. _At least they'll know I'm coming, _I think, imagining him running up to the abbey and babbling in the island's native dialect about a strange woman on a skiff. I laugh a bit.

The child does not disappoint. As I am tying up my skiff at its usual berth among the flat-bottomed dinghies the brothers use to transport the mill's grain to and from the town, I catch sight of Brother James strolling down the hill of the abbey towards me.

Stocky, balding, brown-robed Brother James, looking just like I left him three months ago. A smile breaks out over my face and I raise a hand in greeting.

"Winnifred! I'm thrilled to see you," he exclaims as he draws closer, bending to help me with my rope. Always the gentleman, he is, but gentlemen get in the way sometimes.

I step back and let him handle it to avoid offending his pride. The dark brown of his billowing sleeves dangle nearly to the water, and I wonder, not for the first time, how the monks can stand such oppressive clothing in this clime. Myself, I am soaked through with sweat, but being as that is my default condition on most days, I pay it no mind.

"You must be boiling, Brother," I say to his bent back.

"Ever wonder why we monks shave our heads, Winnifred?" he asks me, straightening and dusting off his hands, the skiff securely moored.

"Not really, no."

Gesturing with one hand at his bald pate, he announces, "It's so the heat can escape," and winks at me.

I laugh, a real good laugh- not the kind I laugh when I play with Tuck and Bull or when I read something amusing in a book, but the kind that only another person can pull out of me. _This _is why I call Brother James a friend.

"I can honestly say it's good to see you, Brother."

"And you, Winnifred. I've been wondering when you would again grace us with your fine salted fish." We set off side by side towards the abbey, following a narrow dirt path that winds around the mill and up a hill that I've walked countless times before.

_ Shall I tell him why I was delayed?_ I think not. Brother James knew father, and knew of his death, and knows I now live alone on my island. And he worries about me, bless his good God-fearing soul. Better not trouble him with the knowledge that I'm keeping a man in my spare bedroom. I can imagine his shock at that: "But Winnifred! The impropriety!" he'd say. Or perhaps a stern "Men are _not_ to be trusted!"

"The days got away from me," I settle on as my lame explanation.

"Ah." Brother James nods knowingly. Too knowingly.

"So," I interject, "are me and my fish still welcome here?"

"Always!" he exclaims, seeming to pass over my little white lie. "We will _always_ be in need of your fish, And your company," Brother James says fondly. Yet I cannot help but notice his broad smile is a shade forced.

"Brother. Be straight with me now. _Be I welcome_?"

"By the abbey, yes," he reassures me, suddenly solemn. Hesitation, and then he continues with, "But I do not think you will find welcome amongst the townsfolk at this time."

"What's happened?" Disease, poor harvest, piracy, or any number of things can be enough to turn a small port towns' inhabitants against all those foreign to their waters. Father and I weathered the occasional deficits of trade well enough together, but nothing of the sort has happened to the town since his death- in fact, it has seemed to be booming with trade- and if the markets remain closed to me, I realize I may not be able to survive without its supplies.

I swallow, hard, and fight to hide a flicker of fear from Brother James. He licks his lips and takes several breaths. He is preparing to tell a long tale.

"Everything has happened, Winnifred: everything and anything that we who call ourselves free men dread. I know you don't get much news out on your island-"

_ Beckett's news_, I remind myself. _Don't forget about Beckett's news_.

"-and you have every right to live as you choose, but we in civilization have to deal with civilization's problems. You are familiar with the East India Trading Company?"

"I've heard of it," I say carefully. "Many of my tools and spices bear its crest."

"As do half the tools and spices in this town. Much of our trade comes from company vessels, but this past week nothing has come into port."

"_Naught_?" I recall the dearth of ships moored in the harbor, and I believe him.

"Nothing," Brother James affirms. "There are rumors about, too: rumors that the pirates grow ever-bolder in their raids. Some even say," and here, he lowers his voice, "that it is because the Company has collapsed."

Now, father may have only taught me enough arithmetic to make sure I don't get swindled when trading, but I can still put two and two together and arrive at four. Nevertheless, an honest truth is always more valuable than a good guess, so I wonder aloud to Brother James as innocently as I can, "And what do _they_ say is the reason an organization as powerful as the East India Trading Company has suddenly collapsed?"

"_Pirates_," he whispers simply. "It is believed that they've killed Lord Beckett himself."

My own jolt of surprise goes unnoticed as he suddenly takes a furtive look around him. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"Of course not."

He hides his hands in the sleeves of his robe and walks on. "I don't want agents of the company to hear that the brothers of the abbey have been spreading rumors."

"But you just said that they-"

"_Rumors_, Winnifred. Rumors."

"How bad?" Whatever this news be, it is not mere rumor. Rumors do not vacate a once-busy port's docks. Rumors do not drive trade from the same busy town. Rumors do not make an honest man of the cloth fidget and fumble uneasily like Brother James before me.

"Bad. What sailors still come to port bring tales from every corner of the West Indies: pirates everywhere, the company nowhere to be seen, trade routes disrupted, ports sacked, general chaos."

"All because of the disappearance of one man?"

"Yes, Winnifred. Apparently ships and guns and men amount to nothing when there's no one to give the orders."

And I felt as if we were speaking of the devil, for the very man was under my care. _Lord Cutler Beckett will be much interested when I bring this news back to him. Yet perhaps he already suspects what I will tell him? _

Ten to one odds Lord Cutler Beckett has a better approximation of his own importance than I ever gave him. Last time I'll ever harbor even a speck of doubt when a half-drowned man shows up and tells me he's a lord.

We come upon the abbey all at once, a big brown door rising over us and a bulbous green-tinted brass knocker bearing down on our heads. Brother James reaches up and knocks three times. A small side door opens after a moment, and we duck inside the courtyard. Other monks mill around, and a couple young servants dart between them.

I do not think Brother James will be eager to resume his discussion of rumors within the abbey itself, so I switch tack. "Can I still get what I came here for? I need flour, salt, some rope, hooks…"

"Most of it," he says, visibly relieved to be on safer conversational ground. "We have the flour and salt you need, but you'll have to go into town and try your luck there for the other things."

"Glad it wasn't all for naught."

Brother James nods. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved." I have forgotten my stomach in the midst of conversation.

He leads me to a small room off the courtyard, most likely a receiving room, as women aren't allowed in the abbey proper. An apple, some cheese, and delightfully fresh bread are waiting for me on a table. I eagerly tuck in.

When I'm sated we raid the abbey's stores. Metaphorically. I'll be paying for what I take. We don't rush, giving me a chance to recover my strength for the return still ahead as he searches out flour and salt of quantities just enough to suit my needs. And more, even: his allotment is very generous. I know for a fact that in town my barrel of fish would have gotten me half what Brother James claims he will willingly trade.

Given the dearth of trade reputed to be had in port I'm grateful to the depths of the ocean for what he gives. Charity, perhaps, but who am I to argue against it willingly bestowed? I'm no less in need than the brothers are.

I'm eager to be getting to town to try my luck at finding my fishing tack. Brother James asks to walk me there- playing the gentleman- and I agree.

We leave the abbey by the same way we came in, but as soon as I'm outside I can tell something is not right. The quality of the air has changed imperceptibly. The light has a curious, filtered tone to it. Dread fills me, for this can only mean one thing. I drag my eyes to the sky to confirm it.

A heavy curse slips from my mouth. "Oh, no." I stare upwards like a condemned criminal stares at the hangman, and I say it again. "Oh, _no_."

Dark grey clouds block out the sun, making it seem dusk when only an hour ago it was daytime. A pallor shrouds everything. Already rain begins to dribble from the swollen clouds, and the ocean, distantly seen through palm trees, tosses white about on the waves.

Brother James knows, or at least thinks he knows, what this spells for me, and tries to offer his comfort. "Perhaps the storm will soon pass," he says, folding his hands into his sleeves uncomfortably.

Not bloody likely. I know storms. I know the weather of this island, for it is the weather of mine: and tropical squalls like this sometimes do not pass for three days, and in the meantime merely worsen.

It takes a split second for me to make my decision. By the time I make it I'm already running. "I have to go, Brother James!" I call over my shoulder as an afterthought.

"Winnifred! Winnifred, it's madness! Stay the night in town- the dogs will survive a night on their own, your supplies will not go bad in one day-" Brother James follows me to the mill as quickly as his age and his robes allow, imploring me to wait all the while.

I say nothing as my boots thunder onto the docks and I begin to wrestle with the knot of my skiff, already tightening with water. I squint up into the sky and wince as rain hits my eye. Every second is crucial, and gauging by the wind and the clouds, I have about an hour of rough seas ahead of me. Then, depending on the direction and intensity of the storm, the waves will get choppy. And after that…

Well. I won't think that far ahead. I might lose my nerve.

Instead I think of Beckett: Beckett, who is patiently waiting for me and eating his measly bread and papaya and water. Beckett, who is blind and who cannot walk, and who will starve if I do not return to the island this night. Perhaps three days will not be long enough for him to die of hunger, but then again, who knows what state his weak body is in? Who knows what ugly fate might befall him? Perhaps he will start to grow hungry, and do his best to stumble around the hut looking for food. Perhaps he will fall and be unable to get up. Or he will wander out the door and lose his way on the beach, and lay in the rain until the tide takes him under. Maybe the thirst will finish him instead. I imagine him lying in the sand, mouth open to the torrential rain, being surprised by a vicious wave. Any one of a hundred scenarios play through my mind as I hurry to cast off, and if I do not make it through the storm tonight, they will all be _my fault_.

Brother James is still trying to dissuade me. I hear him dimly in the background, but I pay him no heed. He cannot stop me now. Only the sea herself can do that.


End file.
